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Authors: Poul Anderson
Tags: Science-Fiction
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Lockridge.
He went through the skin-curtained door with Auri. His eyes needed a while to adapt to the gloom within; there were no windows,
and the smoke that didn’t escape stung. The fire in the central pit was holy, never allowed to go out. (Like most primitive
customs, that had a practical basis. Fires were never easy to start before matches were invented, and anyone might come here
to light a brand.) It had been stoked up until the flames danced and crackled, throwing uneasy flickers across sooted walls
and pillars roughly hewn with magical symbols. The whole population was crowded in: some four hundred men, women, and children
squatting on the dirt floor, mumbling to each other.
Echegon and his chief councilors stood near the fire with Storm. When Lockridge saw her, tall and arrogant, he forgot about
Auri and went to her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘The Yuthoaz are coming,’ she said.
He spent a minute assimilating what the diaglossa associated with that name. The Battle Ax people; the northward-thrusting
edge of that huge wave, more cultural than racial, of Indo-European-speaking warriors which had been spreading from southern
Russia in the past century or two. Elsewhere they were destined to topple civilizations: India, Crete, Hatti, Greece would
go down in ruin before them, and their languages and religions and ways of life would shape all Europe. But hitherto, in sparsely
populated Scandinavia, there had not been great conflict between the native hunters, fishers, and farmers, and the chariot-driving
immigrant herdsmen.
Still; Avildaro had heard of bloody clashes to the east.
Echegon hugged Auri to him for a moment before he said: ‘I had not too much fear for you under Malcom’s protection. But I
thank Her that you are back.’ The strong, bearded visage turned to Lockridge. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘men hunting southward hastened
home with word that the Yuthoaz are moving against us and will be here tomorrow. They are plainly a war band, nothing but
armed men, and Avildaro is the first village on their way. What have we done to offend them or the gods?’
Lockridge glanced at Storm. ‘Well,’ he said in English, ‘I kind of hate to use our weapons on those poor devils, but if we’ve
got to—’
She shook her head. ‘No. The energies might be detected. Or, at least, the story might reach Ranger agents and alert them
to us. Best that you and I take refuge elsewhere.’
‘What? But – but —’
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘time is immutable. Since this place survives a hundred years from now, quite likely the natives will
repel the attack tomorrow.’
He could not break free of her eyes; but Auri’s were on him too, and Echegon’s, and his boatmates’ and girl friends’ and the
flintsmith’s and everyone’s. He squared his shoulders. ‘Maybe they didn’t, either,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’re conquered underlings
in the future, or would be except for us. I’m stay-in’.’
‘You dare —’ Storm checked herself. A moment she stood taut and still. Then she smiled, reached out and stroked his cheek.
‘I might have known,’ she said. ‘Very well, I shall stay too.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
They came west across the meadows, the oak forest on their left, and the men of Avildaro stood to meet them. They numbered
perhaps a hundred in all, with ten chariots, the rest loping on foot: no more than their opponents. When first he squinted
through the brilliant noontide, Lockridge could hardly believe that these were the dreaded men of the Battle Ax.
As they neared, he studied one who was typical. In body the warrior was not very different from the Tenil Orugaray: somewhat
shorter and stockier, his brown hair twisted into a queue and his beard into a fork, his countenance more Central European
than Russian in its beak-nosed harshness. He wore a jerkin and knee-length skirt of leather, a clan symbol burned in, carried
a round bullhide shield
He went through the skin-curtained door with Auri. His eyes needed a while to adapt to the gloom within; there were no windows,
and the smoke that didn’t escape stung. The fire in the central pit was holy, never allowed to go out. (Like most primitive
customs, that had a practical basis. Fires were never easy to start before matches were invented, and anyone might come here
to light a brand.) It had been stoked up until the flames danced and crackled, throwing uneasy flickers across sooted walls
and pillars roughly hewn with magical symbols. The whole population was crowded in: some four hundred men, women, and children
squatting on the dirt floor, mumbling to each other.
Echegon and his chief councilors stood near the fire with Storm. When Lockridge saw her, tall and arrogant, he forgot about
Auri and went to her. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked.
‘The Yuthoaz are coming,’ she said.
He spent a minute assimilating what the diaglossa associated with that name. The Battle Ax people; the northward-thrusting
edge of that huge wave, more cultural than racial, of Indo-European-speaking warriors which had been spreading from southern
Russia in the past century or two. Elsewhere they were destined to topple civilizations: India, Crete, Hatti, Greece would
go down in ruin before them, and their languages and religions and ways of life would shape all Europe. But hitherto, in sparsely
populated Scandinavia, there had not been great conflict between the native hunters, fishers, and farmers, and the chariot-driving
immigrant herdsmen.
Still; Avildaro had heard of bloody clashes to the east.
Echegon hugged Auri to him for a moment before he said: ‘I had not too much fear for you under Malcom’s protection. But I
thank Her that you are back.’ The strong, bearded visage turned to Lockridge. ‘Today,’ he said, ‘men hunting southward hastened
home with word that the Yuthoaz are moving against us and will be here tomorrow. They are plainly a war band, nothing but
armed men, and Avildaro is the first village on their way. What have we done to offend them or the gods?’
Lockridge glanced at Storm. ‘Well,’ he said in English, ‘I kind of hate to use our weapons on those poor devils, but if we’ve
got to—’
She shook her head. ‘No. The energies might be detected. Or, at least, the story might reach Ranger agents and alert them
to us. Best that you and I take refuge elsewhere.’
‘What? But – but —’
‘Remember,’ she said, ‘time is immutable. Since this place survives a hundred years from now, quite likely the natives will
repel the attack tomorrow.’
He could not break free of her eyes; but Auri’s were on him too, and Echegon’s, and his boatmates’ and girl friends’ and the
flintsmith’s and everyone’s. He squared his shoulders. ‘Maybe they didn’t, either,’ he said. ‘Maybe they’re conquered underlings
in the future, or would be except for us. I’m stay-in’.’
‘You dare —’ Storm checked herself. A moment she stood taut and still. Then she smiled, reached out and stroked his cheek.
‘I might have known,’ she said. ‘Very well, I shall stay too.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
They came west across the meadows, the oak forest on their left, and the men of Avildaro stood to meet them. They numbered
perhaps a hundred in all, with ten chariots, the rest loping on foot: no more than their opponents. When first he squinted
through the brilliant noontide, Lockridge could hardly believe that these were the dreaded men of the Battle Ax.
As they neared, he studied one who was typical. In body the warrior was not very different from the Tenil Orugaray: somewhat
shorter and stockier, his brown hair twisted into a queue and his beard into a fork, his countenance more Central European
than Russian in its beak-nosed harshness. He wore a jerkin and knee-length skirt of leather, a clan symbol burned in, carried
a round bullhide shield
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